


Yellowstone

by IthacaontheMove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hitchhiking, Jail, M/M, Yellowstone National Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IthacaontheMove/pseuds/IthacaontheMove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is just trying to make it in a world too small for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellowstone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegirlwhoknits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/gifts).



> Here's your Steter Secret Santa wishing you a Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! I'm not sure it's what you wanted, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!
> 
> Fair warning, I know nothing about anything. And this story assumes Parrish never took Donovan's body.

Stiles is surveying his handiwork—the Lilies-of-the-Valley looked a little lopsided from where he was sitting—when he sees it.

A coyote is walking across the strip of grass separating the sidewalk from the street. He can just make out its shape through a haze of misty rain, an apparition in the otherwise still afternoon.

The coyote’s limping, tucking its left paw close to its chest like the scrawny, broken limb can still find purpose in protecting vital anatomy.

Stiles fumbles for his phone, his California-trained instincts telling him to call animal control right away because an injured coyote is a coyote with nothing to lose.

Its eyes flash in the headlights of a passing car and Stiles slips his phone back in his pocket. It’s a trick of the light, is all. He’s been in Montana for only a few weeks, but the relentless drizzle of spring rain is enough to make anyone crazy. In some places they break out the shorts and flip-flops at the first sign of winter’s end. Seeing long-lost friends in nuisance animals is kind of the same, if you squint at it just right.

He heads back to the truck and doesn’t look back. It isn’t until he gets back to the house he shares with the other workers that he allows himself to think of Malia. Luckily, no one’s on the toilet this time when he throws up. 

 

* * *

 

Montana is the third state he’s visited since he left Beacon Hills.

He went to Nevada first where casino workers are a dime a dozen and no one glances twice at a criminal record, if they bother to check your record at all. He talks shop with the players at his table, scrambles like a pro, and tries not to hit passerby in the face while he practices his wrist flick.

One day is just like all the other days, except a man at his table says he has a real reliable look about him, offers him a job “ranch-sitting” at his place in Idaho if he can get there by next Tuesday. Stiles has heard all this before, and tells him so. Then, he collects the man’s shitty tip and takes the job. 

 

* * *

 

Someone is pounding on the bathroom door. “Jesus Christ, Stilinski, you can jack off any old time, but I have to pee right now! Open the goddamn door!” It’s Jeffries, of course it’s Jeffries, he has the bladder of a 94 year-old woman.

Stiles’ cheek peels away from the floor with a loud squish. He peers into the toilet bowl, makes a face at the remnants of his (yesterday’s? today’s?) lunch. He flushes and stands with a groan. The spring planting season is over in a few weeks, Stiles reminds himself as he washes his cracked, bleeding hands.

Maybe he’ll head to one of the Dakotas next. He’s always wanted to see Mount Rushmore and they probably have tons of seasonal positions for the summer rush. There might be an opening for concessions or even one of the gift shop workers, although they tend towards the insular side, at least that’s what he’s heard-

“Stilinski!”

“Hold your wad, Jeffries! I’ll be out in a second!” Feeling spiteful, Stiles holds his hands under the water for a few extra seconds before turning it off.

Jeffries’ red face greets him when he opens the door and Stiles sends a sickly sweet smile in his direction before heading for the bunks. It isn’t until he strips off his wet clothes and burrows under the covers that he realizes he forgot to eat dinner. 

 

* * *

 

It’s not that he doesn’t like Idaho. It turns out “ranch” meant more like “I have three horses in my backyard please take care of them for me while I travel around the world,” so Stiles memorizes the sheet of instructions the man gave him, watching Youtube videos when he can get a connection to augment his knowledge.

He doesn’t kill the horses. He eats huckleberries for the first time. He also never wants to see a potato again in his life. By the time the man comes back, Stiles isn’t sure whether this feeling is farsickness or homesickness, but lately staring into the horses’ eyes has become a chore and the other day when a nasty storm blew in he thought of the Wild Hunt and he needs to leave right now.

He thanks the man hurriedly, collects his payment, and moves on. 

 

* * *

 

The decision is taken out of Stiles’ hands when the project manager pulls him aside after he fills out his survey and tells him about a summer position at Yellowstone working one of the service stations. He hesitates, thinking of granite faces carved into unsuspecting mountainside, but the project manager turns to Jeffries and no way is Stiles going to inflict that on a freaking national park.

He says yes. 

 

* * *

 

The guy in the blue Ford Fiesta is going to Helena, Montana.

Hitchhiking takes some getting used to, and here’s one area where Stiles can’t afford to be wrong. 99% of the people picking him up are decent enough, but all it takes it one of the 1% to gut you and leave you in the woods for dead. Stiles carries a knife and a really old bottle of pepper spray from his misbegotten teenage years with him at all times, which gives him an extra dose of security.

He’s only had to pull the knife once on a guy near the Nevada-California border. A quick brandish towards his penis and the guy practically threw him out of his car.

Logically, Stiles knows those who pick up hitchhikers are almost as afraid as the hitchhikers themselves. For the decent ones, he keeps his hands loose and relaxed on his lap, faces forward, and plasters on a friendly smile. The smile could use some work (he practiced in the mirror and his constipated-looking face stares back at him) but everything else seems to keep his chariot-keepers happy.

This guy has the feel of a reporter about him, in the way Stiles gives out more information than he means to on the way there, the way the guy’s hands twitching on the steering wheel like he’s reaching for a pen or microphone. Maybe he’s doing a piece on the Mountain West? Or maybe he’s a nosy tweaker. Stiles doesn’t much care.

The guy gets him there in record time. Stiles books a room in a crappy motel, scrolling through lists of temp agencies on his phone, and considers changing his view on Ford Fiestas. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles has never felt so old. The other workers at the orientation are loud and chirpy. They watch the instructional videos and alternate between cooing over and bragging about killing the wildlife despite the flashing warning signs of DO NOT COME WITHIN 25 FEET OF YARDS OF WILDLIFE, DO NOT COME WITHIN 100 YARDS OF BEARS AND WOLVES.

He takes the online quiz, screwing up the part about what to do if a bear comes near you near you, passes anyway, and accepts his packet.

While everyone else tears into their assignments eagerly, Stiles stares at the wolf face emblazoned on his and wonders if he made a terrible mistake. “What are you looking at?” He tells it, checking to see if anyone heard him. Coast is clear.

Fuck it, he thinks. It’s hard enough to find a job with his record let alone at a place as nice as this. Besides, immersion therapy is a cure for phobias, even though he isn’t afraid of wolves per se, really, throwing up after seeing an injured coyote because one of your friends who you try to avoid thinking about at all costs is a werecoyote is totally normal in this day and age.

His knows his life is a cosmic joke when he’s assigned to the Tower/Roosevelt Junction service station right next to Lamar Valley a.k.a. the best place to see wolves in Yellowstone. 

 

* * *

 

Temp agencies look the same no matter where Stiles goes. A shared office building with dingy carpet and blaring minimum wage signs. Doors that don’t shut all the way because of water damage, most likely from people’s tears of desperation. Make sure you don’t go to the bathroom beforehand so you can pee into their cup. Fill out endless forms only to be told you’ll be contacted later.

And, of course, the dreaded question. Have you ever been convicted of a crime/criminal offense/felony and/or misdemeanor. If yes, list dates, offenses, and where convicted, etc. in this tiny little box. Stiles has filled out so many of these forms, he’s taken to getting creative about it. It’s not like there’s a way to spruce up involuntary manslaughter. “Killed a guy on my way to a funeral,” he writes once and the lady behind the desk doesn’t even blink. “Bought a guy a farm. He didn’t take it well,” reads another.

This time he types (very high-tech!) “The worms were starving, I had to give them something,” before clicking submit. He’s contacted a week later about a job in Helena. “I think it’s a great position. They’ll provide housing and supplies. The only thing is you would have to start next week. How does that sound?” the lady on the phone says. He thinks her name is Robin. He thanks Robin and tells her he accepts. She says her name is Susan and hangs up in the middle of her goodbye. 

 

* * *

 

He’s working with an ancient dinosaur of a man named Earl. He seems offended by Stiles’ mere presence. Either that or he’s reminding Stiles about his 24 days off to explore the park every 15 minutes out of the goodness of his heart.

Stiles does not want to explore the park. He does enough exploring on the way to his cabin.

Employee lodgings are sweet in his area, considering the talk of dorms at the orientation. He has to share with another worker and already it’s much better than the last place with double beds instead of bunk beds. It has no wifi, but there is an outlet to charge his phone and he gets a pretty decent signal.

Earl’s bushy white eyebrows furrow less and less as Stiles acclimates to his new job. It’s easy enough; his back hurts less at night and his hands sweat instead of chap and Stiles is starting to loosen up a little, enough to consider possibly going on a hike or two. He’s always wanted to see one of the geysers.

Until he sees the wolf. 

 

* * *

 

He forgot to ask for details about the Montana job, but it turns out to be landscaping. Apparently, some brave plants choose to live in this godforsaken place. Stiles knows he’s being uncharitable here, he’s sure it’s a lovely place somewhere other than where he is, even if the rain seeping into his socks and the folds of his clothes and _everywhere else_ suggests otherwise. He isn’t quite used to the dramatic change in seasons yet.

The other problem with landscaping is it exhausts Stiles’ body, but not his mind. He sleeps like the dead, wakes up refreshed from a sleep free of his usual nightmares. All the hours in between the sleeping and the waking are the problem now.

Mainly he thinks of his dad, berates himself for not calling him more often despite knowing no number of creative insults or badgering will make Stiles call him any faster.

“You need time,” his dad had said, enveloping him in a hug. “Go do whatever you need to do. I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back. Or hey, if you make it to Florida, buy a condo by the beach and I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Stiles had let out a watery laugh and tried not to look back after his dad drove him to the AmTrak station. He ended up breaking the rules for these kinds of partings and turned just in time to see his dad with his hand in the air.

“Best to try and settle down somewhere,” his parole officer had barked out at their last meeting. Briskness is in their job description, apparently. “Reconnect with old acquaintances, put down some roots, however you want me to say it, you should do it.”

So Stiles did what he’s always done: the exact opposite of what someone tells him to do. If it takes him five years, well, he’s not as young as he used to be. 

 

* * *

 

It starts out as a normal day. Stiles feels he should have had some sign from the heavens, some prophetic symbol or vision to let him know he shouldn’t bother getting out of bed this morning. It’s not too much to ask, is it?

Stiles is playing checkers with Earl on the tiny check-out counter, cursing Earl under his breath for double-jumping him once again, ready to sweep it all away under the counter if some customers show up, when he hears the scream.

He and Earl look at each other, alarmed, before rushing out the door at the same time. They get stuck briefly in the tiny entrance. Earl snarls and shoves Stiles back into the store, growling “Protect the merchandise or die,” which seems a little dramatic in Stiles’ opinion. But he likes Earl so he peers through door instead of going outside.

There’s a man and a woman hightailing it up the trail towards the station. They see Earl and practically throw themselves behind his legs. “What on earth is going on here?” Earl thunders and he’s sporting some class 3 level glare right there. The people cower under his legs, rightly so.

“Wolves, man!” The man says, pointing back the way they came. The woman only nods frantically. “Wolves!”

That’s all he seems capable of saying. Earl sighs and crouches down. “Did you not read the park manuals or numerous signs or find out anything at all about this park before you came here? Wolves have a long and cherished history here in Yellowstone and they don’t need humans screaming and yelling and making a huge fuss out of their mere existence. Keep away from them and they won’t bother you. Understood?”

The woman’s still nodding, but rather it’s in response to what Earl said or she’s stuck on that same motion is debatable. The man flaps his hands, imploring Earl to understand. “Dude, no, no, we’ve seen the wolves down in the valley. This isn’t one of those puny things. It has red eyes that glow and jet-black fur and it looked at us, like, down to our souls, man. We were judged and were found _wanting_.”

The woman bursts into tears. Earl gets up, dusts off his pants, and ushers them inside the station, giving Stiles a look at the nose-print he left on the glass. He thrusts some water bottles into their hands and tells them they can wait here until the coast is clear.

“Are you kidding?! I’m getting out of here! Our car is just up the road. If we hurry, we can make it.” The man grabs the woman’s hand and they fly out the door.

“Bunch of hogwash,” Earl grumbles. “They probably heard the legend of the Mountain Wolf and got scared.”

“Mountain Wolf?” Stiles asks faintly, his eyes glued to the clear glass door. The sinking feeling in his stomach that started with the words “red eyes” and dissipated in the face of the couple’s obvious hysterics has returned full force.

“Aye. I’ve heard some rangers talking about it, even some hikers who come in here. There’s a lone wolf, which is a ridiculous idea already, who wanders the land checking in on all the packs. Rumor says he’ll seek vengeance against whoever harms the wolves and he won’t sleep, eat, or drink until his vengeance has been served.”

Earl sees Stiles staring outside, mistaking his dread for fear. “Don’t worry about it, though,” he claps Stiles on the back in what’s supposed to be reassurance but instead almost sends Stiles to his knees. “It’s just crazy story the park management made up to attract more visitors and help conservation efforts for the wolves.”

It’s at that moment that a wolf emerges from the underbrush with bright red eyes, zeroing in on Stiles’ gaze with pinpoint accuracy, and winks. 

 

* * *

 

They all refer to each other by their last names. Stiles is not Stiles here. Just Stilinski. This might be a relief.

They rib him about his skinny arms and legs (there’s muscle there if you poke it!), call him vampire because of his pale skin (“There’s no sun!” Stiles exclaims, pointing to the clouds that have been there forever), tease him mercilessly about his young age (Stiles is almost thirty and that’s practically ancient in his opinion).

It reminds him uncomfortably of high school. Of barbs and jabs traded with friends and enemies alike. He’s heard that the whole world is like high school, but since he was (is?) a loser and nearly got killed like a million times, he was sort of hoping this particular pearl of wisdom wouldn’t turn out to be true.

Stiles gives as good as he gets and the men learn to leave him alone eventually. This suits Stiles just fine. Except for that time he hyperventilates and throws up in the bathroom from thinking about an old friend and no one cares if he’s okay. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles immediately closes the blinds. Earl gives him a weird look because Stiles normally enjoys the sunlight but lets it go.

He’s not sure how he manages to get through his shift. His mind is on repeat the whole time, saying nope, nope, that wolf did not wink at you, it did not look at all like a werewolf, no way, no how, the idea of a werewolf among a pack of wolves is crazy.

Stiles attempts to casually beg Earl to walk him back to his cabin at the end of his shift. Earl gives him a bear whistle and a “good luck” instead.

So naturally he runs into Peter Hale at his cabin. 

 

* * *

 

He lies to himself all the time these days. One of the first rules about being a liar is you can lie to everyone but yourself. Stiles would like to say he only broke that rule after the whole werewolf thing. But that wouldn’t be the truth. The truth is it started early. When his dad, Scott, Melissa, whoever asked if he was okay after his mom died and he said he was fine.

A little voice inside insisted no, he was not fine, this terrible, blank feeling of nothing was not the status quo, stop it right this instant, tell someone how you feel, that’s healthy, that’s normal. Stiles, ruthless even at that age, squashed it down.

After the coyote, he does it again. If Stiles wasn’t a liar in every sense of the word, the little voice would tell him that he misses Malia. He misses Scott, Melissa, Kira, even Liam, Derek, and Peter. He misses Lydia like a phantom limb. And he misses his dad most of all.

The little voice would say he remembers what he told Theo that day in the Jeep: “One word. Good.” That was both a lie and not. He didn’t feel any regret at the time after killing Donovan. He felt relief.

If the little voice could talk to him, it would tell him perhaps guilt manifests in other ways. His anxiety, his nightmares, the destruction of the Jeep, the sting of his knuckles against Theo’s face, the sight of his dad on the floor covered in his own blood.

The way his joints creak, the endless wandering, the keeping people at an arm’s length.

The two years he spends in jail. The two years chafing under the supervision of his parole officer.

The debt he’s paid to society but not to himself.

Stiles shoves those thoughts to the corners of his mind, compartmentalizing until he’s sure he can get out of bed, plant the gardens, and keep going.

The problem with compartments is they open. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a hallucination, surely. There’s no other explanation for the sight of Peter Hale lounging against the side of his cabin, perpetual V-neck intact and nary a hair out of place.

Peter smiles and the sun glints off his teeth. “Stiles, my dear boy. So wonderful to see you again.”

Damn, his subconscious conjures up a pretty convincing Peter Hale. Creep factor and all. “This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening,” Stiles mutters under his breath, digging into his pockets to find his key. His roommate has a later shift and, thank the lord above, is not back yet.

“Denial isn’t an attractive trait, Stiles.” The hallucination’s talking again. Stiles should really get some medicine for that. He feels the warmth of Peter’s hand as it hovers above his shoulder before he decides against it and settles for a cluck of his tongue.

“Come now, we haven’t seen each other in close to a decade and you ignore me? That’s poor manners.” Stiles finally gets the door open, heaves himself inside, and makes to slam it, only for a perfectly shined Italian loafer to block its path.

Stiles repeatedly slams the door into the foot, but it doesn’t budge. He stares at it in disbelief, a perfectly out of place sight in a national park, even without the man attached to it.

“We’re going to talk whether you like it or not, Stiles. Now, we can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way.” God help him, Peter actually sounds sincere for once. He reaches for his pocket, slipping his knife between his fingers.

“When did you leave Beacon Hills? Are any of the others with you? How did you track me down here?” Stiles allows Peter to finish his rapid questioning, then drives the knife deep into his foot.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy Peter’s howl of pain. “You fool! This is genuine Italian leather.” Stiles closes the door on Peter’s curses and frantic attempts to get out the blood and repair the hole. Since he’s neither made of leather cleaner nor able to produce a needle and thread with a mere thought, it ends tragically.

Whatever. Stiles couldn’t care less about Peter’s outlandish taste in clothes. Right now, he’s focused on not panicking.

That must take a long time because next thing he knows, it’s dark out and he hears the crunch of leaves signaling his roommate returning home. He tears around the room like a whirlwind, wiping up the blood with his shirt, chucking it off and changing into a fresh one, folding the knife back up and shoving it into his pocket, culminating in him striking a nonchalant pose on his bed with a book propped open on his stomach.

All his effort is for naught. His roommate’s steps stop just outside the door. Maybe he’s smoking a cigarette? Stiles hopes wildly.

As quickly as they came, his hopes are dashed like a drill on wurtzite boron nitride. “Oh, hello, you must be Stiles’ friend. He’s told me all about you.” Stiles is going to shred Peter’s other shoe for this, mark his words.

“Who’s Stiles? And who the hell are you?” At least his roommate has a healthy dose of suspicion. Stiles approves.

“Hm, so he goes by Stilinski here, then? How…interesting.” Things do not end well when Peter finds something interesting.

“My roommate Stilinski?” The one and only.

“Who else?” Stiles can hear the annoyance in Peter’s voice but suspects his hapless roommate cannot.

“He’s a weird one, let me tell you that.” Rude. Who’s the one coming back to the cabin at, Stiles squints at the clock, 9 PM?

Peter chuckles. The oily sound makes Stiles’ skin prickle, and he’s on his feet and heading for the door in some kind of instinctual need to find the source of the sound and smother it before he realizes what he’s doing. “Indeed. Did I ever tell you about the time-”

Stiles wrenches open the door ahead of Peter’s no doubt embarrassing story. “Okay. Story time is over. Thank you, Peter. If you’ll excuse me, Jake, I’m just going to talk to my friend far, far away from here.”

“It’s Jack,” his roommate calls after them. Like Stiles cares.

“What the hell, Peter?” Stiles hisses when they’re a safe distance away. “I’m minding my own business and you decide to show up out of the blue?”

He feels like he’s under a microscope when Peter pins him with a hard stare. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s looking for, so juts out his chin and stares back. “You didn’t know,” Peter says suddenly, and his eyes soften. Stiles does his very best not to gape at such a show of vulnerability. Peter looks fifty years older at that moment, weariness pulling down his shoulders and outlining the lines on his face.

“Didn’t know what?” Stiles is getting wary. Unfortunately, exhaustion or not, Peter Hale often brings Peter Hale-related baggage with him. So. “Did you kill someone again? Or piss of another pack? Maybe the pack whose alpha you replaced?”

Peter ignores his snide tone. “Did you know?” He asks apropos of nothing. “That a werewolf can become the alpha of an actual wolf pack?”

“No way,” Stiles breathes.

“Yes way,” Peter says conversationally. Like he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb. “Coincidentally, are you going to invite me in?” 

 

* * *

 

Stiles is spacing out the rows for the dahlias when it occurs to him. It took the anvil nine years to fall to Tartarus. It takes Stiles nine years to get out of Beacon Hills. Not that he’s comparing the two. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t invite Peter in. He may have hitchhiked across much of the Western United States, but he has standards okay? What he does do is more or less punch Peter in the face. The more because he’s gotten much better at punching over the years. The less because Peter is a werewolf and they’re pretty solidly built, as Stiles’ bruising knuckles can attest to.

“I’m not sure why you did that,” Peter says thoughtfully. He’s examining Stiles’ hand with all the care of a watchmaker and he doesn’t understand. Fucking hysterical.

Stiles opts to spell it out for him. “You know I don’t like playing games. What’s your angle here?”

Peter glances up at him. “There is no angle.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles spats. “The Peter Hale I know would never care unless he had a million reasons behind it. I’ll ask you one more time: _what’s your angle?_ ”

Peter drops his hand, taking the time to brush imaginary dirt off his pants. He tilts his head and the faint moonlight reflects off the blue of his eyes. “Perhaps the Peter Hale you knew is not the Peter Hale standing before you. Perhaps this Peter Hale is just trying to help an old friend. Perhaps this is Peter Hale trying to turn over a new leaf.”

Stiles doesn’t give an inch. “Perhaps Peter Hale should stop referring to himself in the third person. Are we done here?”

“We’re done,” Peter says.

And that’s that. 

 

* * *

 

He’s pruning the bushes today. The clip of the hedge trimmers is very satisfying. Snip. Snip.

It’s the classic story. Snip. Boy kills chimera. Snip snip. Boy gets tattled on. Boy gets nailed for involuntary manslaughter. Snip snip snip. Boy gets maximum sentence of four years. Snip. Boy gets out early.

The way it happens is this. Scott said, “Maybe you should go talk to your dad.” What he actually meant was “Maybe you should confess to your dad or else I’ll tell my dad.” Justifiable homicide, his ass. Snip snip. 

 

* * *

 

Except that isn’t that. The Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon becomes the Peter Hale Phenomenon and Stiles starts seeing him everywhere. He’s there on the way to and from work, he’s rummaging around outside the cabin and whining until Stiles’ roommate is ready to murder him, he’s sitting at the picnic tables outside the service station.

Earl doesn’t say anything about the strange man stalking him. He squints at Stiles really hard for a second, asks him if he knows what he’s doing. Stiles says he doesn’t. Earl ruffles his hair and drops the subject like a lead balloon. Stiles suspects bribes were involved.

One day, Peter shows up as the Mountain Wolf. This doesn’t faze Earl a bit even though he just denied its existence to Stiles a week ago. Peter’s pulling a full-on Lassie trying to get Stiles to follow him which is hilarious and also pathetic. Earl raises an eyebrow and tells him to take a half-day. “You’re going to leave me alone with a legendary wolf spirit thing?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” is all he says before throwing him out the door.

Peter leads him to the geysers, which isn’t creepy at all. “How did you know I wanted to come here?”

Peter’s wolf grin is his only answer. They stay until the sun starts to set and Peter leads him to a lookout area with a spectacular view of the pinks, blues, purples, and oranges in the sky. He steps behind a tree and transforms back, coming out fully clothed.

“Do you have caches of clothes hidden all over the park?” Stiles asks half-curiously, most of his attention focused on the view.

Peter’s human grin is his only answer. 

 

* * *

 

He calls his dad a week before his temp is up. It’s Sunday, his only day off, and he’s bummed a ride from one of the guys with a promise to pick him up in front of the post office in an hour.

“Hello?” His dad’s voice sounds scratchy. He’s been working late on a case, then.

It takes a couple tries before his voice works. “Hey, dad.”

“Stiles?” He feels a pang at the disbelief in his dad’s voice. “How are you kiddo?”

“Good. I’m good. I’m in Montana now.”

“Montana? What’s in Montana?”

“Rain.” They share a laugh. “Did you get the money I sent you?”

The sound of his dad’s voice spreads warmth through him. Stiles asks about his health, making a mental note to call his primary physician and check for himself, his dad asks him how he got to Montana (he doesn’t mention the hitchhiking).

His dad clears his throat. “The pack’s-The pack’s doing well. The new barrier is holding up alright. I haven’t seen a wendigo in almost three months now. Scott’s kids are good. Melissa’s still at the hospital. Malia checked in on me a week ago and Kira’s boyfriend surprised her with a trip to the Bahamas.”

There’s glass in his throat, spilling out of his mouth. “That’s good.” It’s not enough. He tries to think of something to add. “I guess everyone’s all grown up now, huh? Is Kira’s boyfriend a conductor?”

It’s stupid and inane and there’s dead silence on the other line. “Dad?”

“I miss you, kid.”

“I miss you too.”

There’s voices on the other end and Stiles can hear his dad’s muffled voice responding. “I gotta go. Call me soon?”

“Sure, dad. Bye.”

“Bye, Stiles. Love you.”

“Love you too.” 

 

* * *

 

Stiles sits on a random rock outcropping overlooking the valley. He wanted to see the wolves today. Peter refused to lure them out, but led them to a spot right above a place they frequent.

He has binoculars that Peter bought him (“Can’t have you standing out from the tourists”) and is fiddling with the controls. It’s been two weeks since Peter showed up and Stiles is now only slightly distrustful of his angle. He peeks at Peter from the corner of his eyes and maybe it’s the weird look on his face, which dare he say looks close to something resembling peace, or the fact that besides from that very first day he’s never pushed Stiles to answer any of his questions.

It’s all or none of these things that make Stiles blurt out, “I had to leave. Beacon Hills, I mean.”

Peter gives him his full regard. “After…everything that happened, I couldn’t stay there anymore. I thought it would be nice to start over fresh.”

Peter considers his words for a long time. “You didn’t leave right away, though,” he says neutrally.

“No.” Stiles swallows. “We sold the house to pay off the fine, but there was all the lawyer fees and my dad had to take time off work, so I thought I’d help out as best I could. Stayed until there were no more invoices. It took five years.”

Peter doesn’t say Theo’s an idiot, which Stiles heard from Lydia and his dad, the former in a detailed rant with footnotes and bullet points and the latter stating it like a simple fact of life. It made a nice change from Scott’s visits where he called _himself_ an idiot.

And of course Theo isn’t really an idiot, or else his plan wouldn’t have worked. But the sentiment stands.

What Peter does say is “I killed him.” And he waits until after Stiles has taken a sip from his bottled water to say it.

He spits it out all over the ground. “What?” There’s no need to clarify who “him” is.

Peter looks him square in the eyes. “When Scott and his little pack drove him out of Beacon Hills, he ended up in my territory. He challenged me so I killed him. He was easy prey.” His lip curls in disgust. “I had no idea at the time who he was. If I did, I would have made his death slower and more painful.”

“How did he end up in your territory?”

“Fate, happenstance, who knows? It was a fortuitous turn of events, for me at least.”

Huh. Stiles…doesn’t know how he feels about that, to be honest. Peter’s different than him, lives a life defined by rules unlike the ones Stiles has discovered. Guilt isn’t something that comes easily to him. Or maybe it does, Stiles thinks, eyeing Peter. It just manifests in a different way. Like an empty life when vengeance is served. And filling a void inside with power.

Stiles hands over the binoculars. “You promised me wolves, Hale.”

Peter’s grin is full of smarm, but after two weeks of nonstop company, Stiles is learning to read between the lines. This one’s real.

Stiles spots the wolves from perfectly adjusted binoculars. 

 

* * *

 

The last week of his Helena job, he stops by the library to use the computer. His resume needs updating before his next job hunt.

Stiles waits for the computer to boot up, absently wiping off stray drops of water from the keyboard.

His first job out of jail was at Al’s Green Grocers. Al is an old friend of his dad and the parole officer is pleased that he doesn’t have to waste a reentry program spot on Stiles. He bikes there since his Jeep is totaled (something he tries not to think about) and he doesn’t want to sit in a police car ever again if he can help it, no offense to his dad.

Scott drops by to visit the apartment few times. Kira comes by less frequently. Malia never comes. Scott tells him she’s around here somewhere. Stiles must never be somewhere. 

 

* * *

 

“The only way to retain my Alphaship is to remain in close contact with the packs. However, a wolf who lives a longer than average lifespan would draw unwanted attention.”

“Thus, the Mountain Wolf was born.”

“Sarcasm is the language of the weak,” says Peter, the blatant hypocrite.

Stiles squawks to illustrate this fact. Peter ignores him. “I keep an eye on them and the other Alphas don’t challenge me for dominance. It’s a win-win.”

Stiles, who had to pull a tick off his arm he’s convinced he got from Peter’s fur, isn’t so sure. “But why Yellowstone?”

“Wolves are a protected species here. No hunters of supernatural or natural creatures allowed.” And, yeah, that’s part of the story, but not all of it. Stiles can recognize deflection when he sees it. He allows Peter to think he’s won.

Stiles’ stomach rumbles. “Dining room?”

“Heathen. I’m thinking Thai.”

“We’re in the middle of a giant national park.”

They eat their Thai food on a picnic blanket in the middle of a giant national park. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles is hoping to take some kind of railway to Gardiner, but there’s some mountains in the way or something so he settles for hitchhiking again. A woman with two kids picks him up and Stiles must show his surprise because she’s rapidly explaining herself before he’s even gotten in the car.

“I know, I know, it’s dangerous picking up a strange man.”

“Strange man!” One of the boys yells from the backseat. He hits the other little boy. “Strange man!”

“Tyler, what have I told you about hitting?” The mom says without looking. Stiles is reluctantly impressed.

“I made it from Phoenix to Boston on the generosity of strangers. It was a different time, then, you understand,” she says to Stiles who nods. “If I was hitchhiking, I’d want someone like me to pick me up.” She jerks her thumb towards the boys who have moved on from hitting and are now throwing Cheerios. “Plus, I want to teach these goobers how to be kind.” A Cheerio hits her in the face. “It’s a work in progress.”

“I think that’s nice,” Stiles says after the silence has stretched on for too long. The woman flashes him a sweet smile he doesn’t deserve. 

 

* * *

 

Lydia shows up two weeks later.

His first clue is Earl asking Stiles how a homely guy like him has such attractive friends. There’s no good answer to that question. Stiles has been surrounded by unfairly attractive people his whole life. His second clue is the slight smell of Chanel. His third clue comes when Peter lets out a little strangled noise and is gone when Stiles turns around to investigate.

By the time Stiles has enough clues to put it together, it’s too late. Lydia’s stamping her foot into his. “You jerk! You just up and leave and expect to ignore my calls with no consequences? I had no idea if you were still in Beacon Hills. Hell, I had no idea if you were dead on the street! I’ll give you until the count of three to come up with an excuse. One. Two.”

“I was busy!”

“Not good enough.”

Lydia spends most of the day at the service station, charming Earl into submission without trying and keeping dirt off any and all articles of clothing. Stiles must have been absent the day everyone learned that in class.

It turns out she’s been accepted into the astronaut candidate program. What. The. Fuck. Stiles weakly inquires about the Fields Medal, but Lydia brushes him off and says she can research to her heart’s content after she retires.

She ends up renting a cabin close to his. Stiles is sure this is a waking nightmare. He tells Peter so. Peter pats him on the hand but that’s the extent of his sympathy. He’s been distracted lately, peering off into the distance and distinctly lacking in the sarcastic comments area. If Stiles was worried (which he isn’t) he‘d be concerned Peter’s been avoiding him (which doesn’t bother him at all) but he’s not that lucky because Peter’s harder to shake off than a tick.

Stiles is still trying to process this when Lydia appears at his cabin door with an offer to dinner. Stiles is only an idiot some of the time, so he obeys the underlying command in her voice. He texts Peter. _Going to die tonight. You don’t get any of my stuff._ Peter sends back a thumbs up and stuck-out tongue emoji. Stiles gawks at his phone for a few seconds. This man is a juvenile trapped in a smoking hot older man’s body.

He gets an elbow in the side for his inattention.

It turns out dinner at Lydia’s cabin is more akin to I ordered half a Chinese restaurant. Stiles digs in, asking Lydia if he can take the Sweet and Sour Chicken back for Peter. Her agreement is accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

When Lydia breaks out the wine, Stiles steels himself for an interrogation. He’s proud of the way his hands hardly shake as he pours out their glasses.

Lydia surprises him by not saying anything for a while, seemingly content to study him in silence.

He’s starting to let his guard down when she deigns to speak to him. “I could have loved you, you know,” Lydia says while twirling her fourth glass of wine.

Stiles, in the process of topping of his own glass, shoves the cork back in the bottle. “Okay, no more drinking for you.”

Lydia grins like a shark at his no doubt red-tipped ears. “Honestly, Stiles. It’s not the alcohol talking.”

He can’t think of a single thing to say in the face of such a confession.

Lydia sighs at his lack of response. But she reaches for his hand anyway. Later, after she pops the cork again and doles out two more glasses each, she’ll whisper “You’re my best friend. I missed you. If you ever leave me again, Prometheus’ fate will look tame compared to yours.”

And Stiles will reply without once thinking of a brother in all but blood, “You’re mine too. I missed you even more. I won’t.” 

 

* * *

 

The woman’s tire goes flat halfway to Gardiner. Stiles rolls out the spare. It’s been some time since he’s changed a tire, but it comes easily to him in this moment.

“You’re really handy to have around,” the woman says.

“My mom showed me how to do it.” He doesn’t mean to say that. Doesn’t like to think about all the things Theo destroyed in the wake of his temper tantrum.

“She sounds like a wonderful lady.”

“She was.”

The woman squints at him and extends her hand. “I’m Linda, it’s nice to meet you.”

He takes her hand. “Stiles. Pleasure’s all mine.” 

 

* * *

 

There is a werewolf standing on the trail.

“Did you call him?” Stiles gestures to the him in question.

Lydia wrinkles her nose. “I haven’t stayed in touch with anyone in Beacon Hills, let alone try-hard ragamuffins with anger issues.”

Stiles cannot believe this is happening. “Is this some kind of conspiracy?! Are all park rangers secretly werewolves or werebears or wereotters or werewhatevers?”

Liam’s guileless grin falters in the face of Peter’s profound stinkeye.

“ _Most_ werewolves choose more subtle occupations.”

Liam hurries to explain. “This is a trial run, Yellowstone is really prestigious. They let me in because they say I have a way with wolves.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Lydia says in an uncharacteristic display of impatience. “Is there anyone else out there? Scott? Kira? Malia? Derek? If you’re there Derek, can you take your uncle back, please?”

Peter looks mildly offended. “I’ll have you know, Derek is a history professor in Maine. He and Cora live in a literal log house. Hardly any amenities.”

“God forbid you go a day without your precious _amenities_ ,” Lydia all but snarls. Even Liam looks unnerved. This might be the breaking point, Stiles thinks. Sure enough, they’re shouting at each other a few seconds later. Or their version of shouting, anyway. Cutting remarks fall fast and quick, old histories are dredged up, and weaknesses poked and prodded until they give way.

Stiles has no desire to get in between that. “So a park ranger, huh?”

Liam nervously flattens his hair. “Yeah. I figured it’s a good fit. Most of the parks have local packs pretty close to their borders, so I have protection if some rampaging Alpha or hunter wants to take down an Omega.”

“Omega?” Stiles asks sharply.

“I left Scott’s pack after I graduated. It’s ungrateful of me, I know, since he saved my life and all. But after everything that happened with Hayden-”

“How is she?”

“Alive. Last I heard she’s teaching English in Madrid, so pretty good I think.” He perks up. “I have pictures of everyone if you want to see.”

“Whoa, don’t mistake my polite queries as interest, dude, I don’t want you to parade out the whole family album.” Stiles stops talking at the sight of Liam’s blinding smile. “Cut back on the Colgate, you’re blinding me over here.”

If possible, his smile gets brighter. “It’s good to see you again, Stiles.”

“I’m so glad to hear that from the guy who fell into a hole.” 

 

* * *

 

Linda pokes him in the side, laughing at his indignant shout. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Stiles.”

“I’m not looking for anything.”

“I know, but I’ve always wanted to say that.” She waits for him to get out of the car. “Have a good life. I hope I see you again.”

And she’s gone. 

 

* * *

 

His summer employment is almost at an end.

Stiles is expecting someone else from the pack any minute now. Lydia went back to Texas, after asking i.e. threatening him to send postcards and call at least once a week or else. Stiles is pretty sure she threatened Peter about something too, if the scowl on his face at the airport is any indication.

Stiles thought he got out of his encounter with Liam scot-free, but then his phone chirps at 5 in the morning. It’s a text. From Liam. Of a video of a wolf cub. It’s cute as hell, except it’s five in the morning. _Fuck you,_ Stiles sends back. 30 seconds later, _He’s cute, I guess. What’s his name?_

Peter is the same as ever, a constant presence at Stiles’ side. Stiles has finally figured out why he’s been acting so weird lately. He’s struggling whether to tell Stiles something. It’s no doubt something big, so Stiles is content to wait until Peter’s ready.

He’s ready later on that day. Stiles is not ready.

“I haven’t told you the real reason I came to Yellowstone.” Ha, Stiles crows in his head. Totally called it! “I tried to bust you out of jail.”

“Wait, what?” The breath whooshes out of Stiles in one fell swoop. He feels like he’s cracking apart, the words coming out of Peter’s mouth to break his spine, his heart, his mouth, his brain, simply to be put back together again by the same words, by the petulant tone in his voice, by the depth of his caring.

“Needless to say, I got caught. US Marshals are surprisingly persistent.”

Stiles is speechless. The words he speaks are drawn from his emergency sarcasm well while his brain reboots. “Have you never seen the Fugitive? Or better yet what about Braeden?”

“Point taken. Eichen House was one thing, I couldn’t imagine what mmphfh-”

Stiles never gets to hear what Peter imagined mmphfh. One moment he’s listening in disbelief as Peter admits he tried to break him out of jail, the next his lips are on Peter’s.

It’s more of a peck, really. Stiles hasn’t kissed anyone since Malia and Peter’s been hanging around wolves long enough to get ticks, and, well, it’s been a while.

Stiles is pulling away from the kiss and Peter growls and grabs his shirt collar and this time it’s most definitely a kiss and oh there’s some tongue action fuck

When he comes to his senses, Peter is looking decidedly smug. Two can play at that game. Stiles runs his fingers lightly up Peter’s cheek, enjoying the startled gasp this elicits, trailing his fingers through his hair and using it to pull him in for another kiss that leaves him panting and hungry for more. This time they both sport the smug looks. Much better.

This one-upmanship will be good for their relationship, Stiles can tell. 

 

* * *

 

Earl retires earl-y the next year.Stiles suspects bribes. He bequeaths his position to Stiles somehow, claiming it’s an administrative move the management never saw coming. Stiles still suspects bribes.

“It isn’t exactly a condo in Florida,” he tells his dad as he shows him the little cottage they picked out for him (“I trust your judgment, Stiles. I know absolutely nothing about Montana.” A pause. “Is Peter helping you?” “Thanks for the vote of confidence, dad.”) a couple miles from the park. Rent control and everything.

“It’s perfect,” his dad says. “And if Peter ever does anything to hurt you, body disposal is a cinch!”

“Perish the thought,” Peter says because he turns into Mr. Darcy or Garth Brooks whenever his dad is around.

As for their own lodgings, Peter insists on completely renovating his place from top to bottom to accommodate Stiles’ needs. “I’m beginning to feel like a kept man,” Stiles complains as he studies the paint swatches.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Peter smirks. “I only keep you around for your body.”

Stiles meticulously paints one of his hairs grey that night in retaliation. The nuclear fallout is a bonus.

Peter is in the shower when Stiles gets the text from Derek. _Ask Peter about the book._

Derek has texted Stiles maybe three times in his whole life. This is serious business. He asks Peter while he’s in the shower and his defenses are down. Peter has shampoo on his head and gives Stiles his the-things-I-do-for-you stare. “He may or may not have helped Stephen King out with some research for one of his books. There may or may not be a note in one of the acknowledgements.”

The next time he’s in town, Stiles grabs a copy of the newest Stephen King book. He flips to the acknowledgements page and sure enough, “A special thank you to Derek, who would like me to inform his Uncle Peter to fuck off and have a good life.”

Stiles laughs until he’s sick. Thankfully, Peter’s there to kiss it better. But not before Stiles takes a screenshot and sends it to his dad, Lydia, Liam, Derek, Cora, and the entirety of the Beacon Hills pack.

Life isn’t perfect. But it is good.


End file.
